


The Bodyguard

by gnimaerd



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 02:53:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnimaerd/pseuds/gnimaerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Gwen is the rightful once and future queen. Morgana is her spectacularly bad tempered bodyguard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bodyguard

Morgana stamps into court at a little past lunch time that afternoon, dragging a kitchen maid by the hair.

“Found her!” She shakes the maid.

The maid is screaming and sobbing which makes it rather hard to hear what Morgana is saying, but Gwen gets the gist.

“Morgana, put the girl down.”

Morgana has a particularly manic gleam in her eyes. Gwen knows it to be the same one she gets at the prospect of going to war or castrating the men who attack unsuspecting women down dark allies.

“But I’d so much rather take my knife to her! Cut her up – I’ve a potion that calls for the bones of a virgin – ”

This is not helpful. The girl’s screams grow higher pitched and desperate. Morgana seems to think that shaking her harder might quiet her, but it in fact has the opposite effect.

The court stands petrified before the spectacle.

“Morgana,” Gwen begins again, louder and firmer. “Put. The girl. Down. You’re hurting her.”

Morgana snorts, sighs, and tosses the girl away from her in disgust. “Won’t you even let me turn her into a toad?”

“No,” Gwen folds her arms. “What has she done?”

“Tried to poison you.” Morgana holds up a little vile of something grey and evil smelling, “I found her putting this into your goblet. Tell the queen who paid you?”

The girl begins to babble, shaking, incoherent, eyes huge, hands clasped – she makes absolutely no sense. Gwen sighs, orders her guards to have the girl taken down to the dungeons until she has calmed enough to talk, and then retires to her chambers, calling Morgana after her.

Morgana skulks along in her wake like a sulky child.

Once alone, Gwen seats herself at her desk as Morgana prowls the room – the queen ignores her until she settles down. It’s like having a child who has thrown a tantrum: feeding the histrionics will only prolong them.

True to form, Morgana eventually loses steam and flops into the nearest chair, scowling but somewhat calmer.

“You never let me have any fun.”

“That’s what queens do,” Gwen intones, not looking up from her papers – she has queenly duties to attend to and is not in the mood to soothe Morgana when the woman really ought to be capable of acting more like a grown up. “We stop people having fun. Professionally. And also we stop vengeful witches turning maids into frogs.”

“Even the ones who try to poison you?”

“Even the ones who try to poison me,” Gwen looks up at that, even and steady as ever. “We have laws for such occasions, after all.”

Morgana might actually be pouting. Gwen finds that rather attractive but isn’t about to admit to any such thing – she’s far too sensible.

“You know you scare people,” she sits back, casting Morgana a long, accusatory stare. “When you charge about, dragging traitorous maids by their hair. My courtiers are all frightened enough of you as it is.”

“Good,” Morgana remains defiant. “I hope I scare them. I hope they all remain very, very frightened of what I might do to people who try to hurt you.”

That, Gwen supposes, is rather endearing – in that way that Morgana has of being both lovely and homicidal at precisely the same time. She allows herself a grim smile and resists the urge to reach across and ruffle Morgana’s main of hair (good Lord when was the last time the woman tried to brush it?)

“Nonetheless,” she says, a little more gently, “it would not hurt for you to learn to be a little subtler. At the moment you’re just not very good for morale.”

Morgana is most definitely pouting. But she’s never actually refused a direct order from her queen – especially not when it’s made with that particularly gentle tone which Gwen reserves only for her – and she nods, huffing.

“Fine.”

“Good. Now – would you be so kind as to tell my maid to fetch me some wine? Preferably without any hair pulling or threats to her life or her family?”

“Why do you want wine at two in the afternoon?”

“Why do you think?”

Morgana snorts, bows, and does as she’s told.


End file.
